CHAPTER XXI

THE RAID

My telephone rang persistently. I had just waked out of a sleep of exhaustion and reached for it with sleep-numbed fingers.

“Perutkin speaking!” the voice boomed. “Meet me in the lobby of the Biltmore in twenty minutes!” The words were a command. My wishes were not consulted. But I agreed readily enough. Most people did when Perutkin commanded.

So I dressed hastily and gulped my weak coffee. A cab deposited me at the Biltmore a few moments before the appointed time. I saw no sign of the Russian and made myself comfortable with a week-old New York newspaper and a cigar.

Several moments later the bulk of the Russian loomed over me. “Put away that paper,” he whispered. “I shall give you something more appetizing than an editor’s fancies. Rise from your chair and nonchalantly as you can follow me to the elevator.”

“Why? What?” I demanded.

“Ask nothing. And do not look so surprised. We are going upstairs.”

As he said this, he preceded me into the elevator cage.

“Seventh,” he barked at the boy. And then to me: “Well, are you enjoying yourself? A most interesting city, is it not? Or do you confine your wanderings to Sloppy Joe’s, like all Americans?”

I mumbled something. But by this time we had alighted. He strode forward confidently. Then I realized that we were approaching the suite of Henry Breese.

“We’re not going to see the old man?” I demanded.

“Quiet!” whispered the Russian, as a bell boy whisked past us. “We are not going to see anyone.” He stopped in front of Breese’s door. He reached into his pocket and extracted a miniature jimmy. This he inserted in the lock and the door opened almost instantly. He dragged me into the room--I could not move--and then closed the door behind him.

“We are doing a little burglary,” he explained casually. “I needed a companion in crime and I chose you. Are you not flattered?”

“But what are you going to do--and why?” I insisted.

“It’s simple enough,” he said carelessly. “I’m going to search Mr. Breese’s room very thoroughly. That is all. If you are afraid we shall be interrupted, let me inform you that Mr. Breese will be occupied for several hours. I have ascertained that. The chambermaid has already made the beds and issued the towels. We are quite safe. You see, I am a good burglar. I know what I’m at. Any detective worthy of the name who cannot be a better burglar than the regular members of the profession really has no reason for existence.”

“But do you think,” I demanded, “that Breese would leave anything in his room calculated to arouse our suspicions?”

“Why not?” demanded the Russian, proceeding to the secretary, and opening a drawer. While he was examining papers he said: “You must understand this about crimes and criminals: At a certain stage every criminal is exact, methodical and cunning. Then he becomes desperate and may do something brilliant--such as the killing of Trenholm with Smith’s own pistol. Our friend Smith has not yet recovered from his chagrin at that. In fact, it hurts more now than ever. But as the pace becomes more furious for the criminal he becomes careless. He must relax. He must overlook something.” He put back carefully letters, telegrams. “And we may find something. I do not guarantee it. But I am hoping.”

I called out suddenly, for I heard soft footfalls approaching outside. The Russian paused, listening. Then the door next to ours opened and I breathed more easily.

“There is only one thing,” the Russian said. “I have not devised a means of exit if we are surprised. I do not expect to be surprised. But if the worst comes to the worst, Mr. Smith can always rescue us from the law. A trifle! In my own country I have consistently broken all laws.”

He was now at the wardrobe closet, expertly fumbling into the pockets of Mr. Breese’s carefully tailored suits.

“But the man is rich!” he exclaimed. “Such textiles! Such cloth! I have always bought the best when I could afford it, and I flatter myself my taste in clothes is superior to any man’s. Unfortunately, at the moment I cannot indulge it. I always had my clothes made in England when I was in my glory,” he sighed. “However--what have we here?” He held up a piece of brown wrapping paper. I thought it strange that Breese should carry such an obviously dirty piece of paper on his person. “Look!” cried the Russian.

Peering over his shoulder, I saw that these words had been scrawled upon the paper:

“Dear Mr. Breese,” I read. “Please come and see me right away as I have important info. and it will pay you. Don’t fail to come as this is _important_. I will be waiting for you tonight at 7 in my shop 32 Calle C and 3rd Street. Charles Spence.”

“Charles Spence!” exclaimed the Russian. “I wonder if it can be the Charlie who advised Trenholm on just such paper and in just such writing to get money!”

“It must be,” I exclaimed.

“Smith has that letter,” the Russian continued. “If we could compare, we could make sure. But obviously it must be the same man. And we have his address--Calle C and 3rd Street.” He put the paper carefully back into the pocket he had just rifled. “We shall proceed there immediately. Come!”

When the Russian moved, he moved quickly. I found myself panting after him as he strode down the corridor. We waited for the elevator. Just as we were about to get in, the elder Breese emerged.

He frowned on us, and did not even nod. For his part, the Russian ignored him and stepped into the elevator cage.

Down in the lobby, he said: “Unless I miss my guess, Mr. Breese has forgotten that note. He is wearing a suit not unlike the one I examined. He probably was on his way to see our Charlie and then discovered he had forgotten the address. We shall wait.”

We waited in easy chairs screened by pillars so the elder Breese did not see us when he emerged once more and hurried out. The Russian beckoned to me and we followed slowly. When we reached the street, Breese was already in a cab. The Russian permitted him to disappear around a corner before he summoned a cab for us and directed our driver to take us to Calle C and 3rd.

“A highly interesting man, Breese,” the Russian lectured on our way down. “If my theories are right--and I have no reason to doubt them--he will probably go down in history as one of the world’s most interesting criminals. And why not? When a respectable and cultivated man goes in for crime he makes the efforts of the professionals look childish in comparison. Most criminals are merely mental deficients.

“What I admire in him is his attitude toward us. Most criminals would be bland, friendly. They would be very careful not to antagonize the police. With what result? The clever detective sees through them. Not so with Breese. He takes pains to antagonize us. Why? Because, he reasons, we will assume he has nothing to fear. He is merely standing on his rights.”

“But is his attitude so unnatural?” I asked. “After all, he’s an arrogant man.”

“He was not arrogant when he warned Smith of his wife’s danger an hour after she was murdered. He was polite enough when he tried to explain away his possession of a key to the Gilded Cage. There are moments when he shows fear. But he is a man of considerable strength of mind. After all, he reasons he can leave for the States at any moment now. Then he is safe. The case will be forgotten. He is not in a bad position, Mr. Breese. In fact, he is in a very good position. I do not boast, but his sole misfortune is that I happen to be interested in the case. Other criminals have discovered that before him!”

He leaned back contentedly and let the sun warm his ruddy face. We were passing through Havana’s slum section. Colored urchins as naked as the day they were born rolled in the sand. Black women were grouped in front of flimsy shacks in the community kitchen, for the primitive cooking on charcoal fires was done in the open. Every so often a butcher’s cart full of live chickens, guinea hens and peacocks rolled by under the guidance of a somnolent coolie.

About a block from our destination, we dismissed the cab and walked past a series of open stores and shabby brick homes. We spied a small sign: “Charles Spence--Bicycles--Repairs.”

In front of the shop, a taxi waited. I recognized it as the one Breese had engaged. The Russian stopped a few feet away from the store.

“We shall wait here,” he said.

“Well, I’ll wait for you!” The Russian swung around. I started. Smith was at my elbow.

“Where did you come from?” the Russian chuckled. “But you are bright this morning, Mr. Smith!”

“I was just about going to ask you the same question,” Smith smiled jovially. He seemed unusually buoyant. There was an air of triumph about him.

The Russian explained how we found the note. Smith grinned.

“You went to a lot of unnecessary trouble,” he said somewhat patronizingly to the Russian. “It so happens that this morning I got a letter from Mr. Spence asking me to call.”

“And then you saw Mr. Breese walk in?” concluded the Russian.

“No, I called first and after I had gone out I saw Mr. Breese walk in.” He shook his head reflectively. “Very funny chap, Spence. I had a long talk with him.”

“Well, I am listening!” the Russian boomed. “Tell me!”

“Well,” drawled Smith, “I’ll tell you exactly what happened. I got a letter saying this: ‘Call at Calle C and 3rd--Charles Spence.’ I discovered that Mr. Spence was a rather gangly chap, with very sharp eyes. If I’m not mistaken, it’s T. B. with him, and he came down originally for the climate. Well, he hemmed and hawed a lot before he got started, and then hemmed and hawed a lot more when he did. What it all came down to was this: he wanted to know how much there was in it for him if he told all he knew about the Breese murder. I had to tell him there was no reward, but that I’d see to it that he was well paid. In fact, I said I’d be willing to give a year’s salary myself just to clear the case. He hemmed and hawed some more.”

“But didn’t he give you any inkling of what he knew?” interrupted the Russian.

“He made it pretty plain,” replied Smith, “that he got his information from Trenholm.”

“Who had never met Mrs. Breese,” said the Russian.

“Yes, I put that up to him,” replied Smith. “But he only smiled a kind of wet smile and let it go at that. He said he knew and he had the evidence and it was just a question of whether I would pay. Well, naturally, I got excited. I tried to pin him down. When he wouldn’t come across, I threatened to arrest him as a material witness. He got frightened at that. I guess he had forgotten to figure on that. But he was pretty obstinate. Well, finally I said I’d give him an hour to think it over. I left, and just as I got down here I saw Breese’s cab draw up.”

“Hmm,” the Russian reflected. “You have handled matters very badly, Mr. Smith.”

“How do you get that?” Smith demanded resentfully.

“It is quite obvious,” replied the Russian. “The man is greedy. He has a piece of information implicating Breese. He knows that Breese is obstinate. He is obviously blackmailing him. He thinks that perhaps, if Breese fails to pay, then the police will give him something substantial. You should have promised him at least fifty thousand dollars. It costs nothing to promise.”

“I don’t have to promise him anything,” countered Smith. “I can lock him up any time and he’ll come through all right. I’m not worried about him. This case is over. What with Breese coming down and Charlie Spence handy where I can get him I expect to have something in a very short time.”

“Which leads me to the conclusion,” said the Russian, “that all my bright hopes have been shattered. I’m going to see Mr. Spence myself.”

“Not while Breese is in there!” exclaimed Smith.

“But why not? I want Breese to know that I am here. It will help matters considerably. Come!”

I knew the Russian well enough by this time to know that he would be in Charles Spence’s bicycle store within a moment and I plunged after him.

Mr. Spence’s window contained one highly polished wire-wheeled bicycle, a collection of patched tires and an incongruous monkey wrench. The window had not been washed in many years. It is something of an eccentricity to have a shop window in Havana. The natives use shutters.

As we entered the dark store I was surprised to find no one in sight. The Russian knocked loudly upon a small work-table. Still no one answered.

“As I feared,” he muttered. “Mr. Smith should be spanked.”

“There must be someone here,” I ventured. “Breese’s cab is still outside.”

“We shall try the door,” the Russian decided, pointing to the little door leading obviously to another work shop. He thrust this open. The elder Breese, who had been sitting at a table, sprang up.

“Greetings, Mr. Breese,” boomed the Russian. The old man said nothing. “We should like to see your friend, Charlie Spence.” Still the old man did not answer. “Surely you will be good enough to tell us where we can find him, no?”

“I’m waiting for him myself,” the old man said finally, glaring at the Russian.

“Then we shall wait, too,” said the Russian. He seated himself directly opposite the financier, and leaned over toward him. “That is what I admire in you Americans--your great democracy. Who would think that so important a man as you would have so humble a friend as Spence? It is remarkable!”

Breese grunted.

“Did you say something, Mr. Breese?” demanded the Russian.

“No, I didn’t,” snapped Breese.

The Russian bowed with mock courtesy. “I don’t expect you to talk to me. But it’s really no use, Mr. Breese. No use at all. This man Spence wants your money--and yet what good will it do you? We have the evidence. Believe me, Mr. Breese, he is merely making a fool of you.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” sputtered the financier.

“Surely my meaning is quite plain,” retorted the Russian. “You received a letter from Mr. Spence this morning. Mr. Spence is--or rather, was--a friend of our wireless operator who was killed so mysteriously. Mr. Spence has the same information that caused that poor fellow’s death. Only Mr. Spence does not intend to suffer the same fate. He intends to enrich himself and at your expense. Well, Mr. Breese, are you ready to talk now?”

“About what?” snapped Breese. “I got a letter the other day from this man and a very strange telephone call. He said he had some information on my wife’s death. I came here this morning. I met him. He asked me to wait. He said he had business a few doors away. I’ve been waiting for him ever since.”

“Almost plausible!” said the Russian.

“Damn it, do you think I’m lying to you?” shouted Breese.

“I know you are,” replied the Russian coolly. “Be good enough to tell us where Mr. Spence is. What have you done with him?”

“What have I done with him? Man, are you mad?” Breese sputtered feebly. “I’ve got a good mind to report you to your superiors.”

“Here is my superior now,” the Russian called, as Smith swung the door open. Smith’s face was grave. The Russian sensed that something had happened.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Have you found Spence?”

“No,” said Smith. “But Mr. Spence just drove away post-haste in your cab, Mr. Breese. And when I called to him he seemed very anxious not to hear.”

“I can’t understand it,” muttered Breese.

“I can,” said the Russian. “Mr. Spence’s plans went slightly wrong. Mr. Smith threatened him with arrest. And you, Mr. Breese, threatened him with his life. Caught between the devil and the deep sea, he ran away.”

“You think that I--I threatened him?”

“Certainly.”

“You must be mad! You must be!”

“There’s an easy way of testing that,” challenged the Russian. “For example, if it should so happen that you carry a weapon at this moment, no jury would declare me mad for believing that you threatened your humble friend. Do you carry a revolver?”

“I do carry a revolver,” Breese conceded hesitantly, after an uncomfortable pause.

“Ah!” exclaimed the Russian.

“I didn’t know where I was going. I took it along for protection.”

“May I have that revolver?” Smith asked, extending his hand. Reluctantly the old man surrendered the weapon.

“Thank you,” said Smith. “Now, Mr. Breese, I think you should know that I’ve gotten Spence’s full story,” Smith lied easily. “I was here before you came--and--there’s no use holding it back from you--he told me enough to warrant your arrest. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to go down to Headquarters with me.”

“Arrest me--for what?” shouted the old man.

“For the murder of your wife and the murder of Louis Trenholm.”

The old man looked from Smith to the Russian, and then at me.

“I suppose you’re all quite sane,” he said finally. “I may be mad myself. I shouldn’t wonder, with all I’ve been through. But just what is the reason for my arrest?” He was quite calm now, as if striving hard to maintain his composure in a bewildering situation.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” the Russian shook his head. “As far as I know there is not a single piece of evidence against you.” I could not believe my ears. Smith could only stare.

“Look here----” bellowed Smith.

The Russian held up his hand.

“Not a word, Mr. Smith. I’ve led you astray. This is not our man. We’ve been fools--utter fools!” Then he muttered, “Bicycles! Wireless operator! Don’t you see?” He paced up and down excitedly. “It is incredible that I missed it. Utterly incredible. I am ashamed! I am senile!” Then suddenly he shouted: “Come--come before it is too late! Follow me!”

He bounded out of the room.